Therapy
by paperspiral
Summary: An unsuspecting psychologist finds little choice but to take on a sociopathic client.
1. Chapter 1

Sabretooth belongs to Marvel Comics. All other characters belong to me.

* * *

**October 8th**

I shifted in my chair by putting weight on my left forearm and tried to make myself more comfortable in my own overstuffed leather chair. My mouth was bone dry and there was a fingerprint on my glasses lense obscuring my vision. I didn't want to pull out my cloth and wipe them down though, I was concerned it would draw attention back to me and off my...client.

"What's a matter, doc? You look uncomfortable." He cupped his hand around his lighter against a non-existent wind and lit up a cigarette. My office was dark because I had turned out most of the lights on my way out the door for the evening when he caught me. The glow of the flame lit up his face revealing a clean-shaven jaw, bushy blond eyebrows, and three gold rings in his right ear that he didn't have during his last session. His hair was up in a ponytail tonight, bound by a leather strap. His massive hands, tipped each with a deadly sharp claw glinting in the moonlight from my window held my gaze. He caught me looking.

"I don't allow smoking in my office." I whispered, licking my cracked lips.

Mr. Creed seemed to consider this a moment while sucking hard on the butt. He nodded finally and crushed it against the sole of his black leather shoe and left it delicately on the end table beside him while blowing out the smoke. I had to remind him of this every session. Part of me wondered if it was because he came so infrequently to forget, or because he liked to see how far he could push the limits, like a petulant child in a grown man's body.

"Better?" He purred like a cat. I nodded in response.

"What would you like to talk about tonight?" I began the unscheduled therapy session, hoping that he wouldn't keep me terribly long. These were off the book appointments which were not appointed at all. Mr. Creed would show up out of nowhere and I was expected to stay until he was finished.

The brooding, blond hulk sat in his gray suit in the opposite overstuffed chair and rubbed his chin with the pad of a thumb, staring off into nothing for a moment. "We're fighting again, her and me." He replied quietly.

"You and your wife?" I clarified. I had no idea how this man was married.

"Course." His voice a low growl, but he continued to rub his chin and his green eyes didn't move from their spot to my right.

Mr. Creed had shown up in my office over a year ago, under similar circumstances; late at night as I was closing down my practice. The secretary had gone home half an hour before and I was just ready to leave myself. He was grinning at me in a way I didn't like while sitting in an empty chair in the waiting room, his right ankle resting on his left knee and his clawed fingers folded together in his lap.

"Your number's up, doc." He had taunted. I knew what he was at that point, just not who. He smelled like wet wool from the rain outside soaking into his jacket and newspaper boy cap, but he didn't move.

I didn't bother moving. My brother has sent the assassin, and by the looks of him, my number was indeed 'up'. The man outweighed me by one hundred and fifty pounds at least, and I had a limp in my left thigh from a car accident a decade ago.

I remember sinking down to a waiting chair on the other side of the coffee table, putting my briefcase down in a tired sort of manner and letting out an exhausted sigh. And I just started to talk. Words rushed out of my mouth that had been pent up inside of me my entire forty seven years. None of it would have made sense to him, but strangely, he sat there patiently. Nodding his head, listening. I went on for nearly an entire hour and the other man had not moved a muscle. He was a surprisingly good listener.

"Do therapists have therapists?" The assassin asked after I concluded my ramblings.

Mr. Creed sucked in his bottom lip and exhaled a sharp whistle to stir me from my reveries. I smiled faintly in apology.

"Do you want to talk about the fighting?" I prompted returning to the present.

"Naw, it's about nothing and everything. She's driving me crazy. She ain't being receptive." The word receptive came with large hand gestures to his expansive lap.

"I can see why that would be frustrating to you. Is she usually receptive? It's Emma, correct?" I poised the pen over my writing pad.

He grunted a yes before talking. "Sometimes. Sometimes not so much." Mr. Creed resumed rubbing his chin again and staring into oblivion. Something bothered him and I waited patiently for it to come out. "I don't think she loves me unconditionally anymore." It came out slowly and quietly.

"That's important to you." I responded in a statement rather than a question. It had been very important in the beginning for him to explain the type of 'cold-hearted bastard' he was. Coupled with a few Google searches of my own, I did not doubt he was a large-scale, homicidal sociopath who was proud of his ability to snap a person's neck without blinking.

"Yeah, guess it is." He chuckled humourlessly.

"It's important for you to be loved." I called this technique 'poking'. I didn't know which way my client needed me to take this conversation, so I would throw out simple statements, hoping they would nod or correct me.

Mr. Creed glared at me from beneath his eyebrows. That had been the wrong direction.

"It's important that Emma loves you. Why?"

"It wouldn't be a far stretch to believe I don't make friends easily. Those that can stand to be around me are the kind whom I _don't_ want around me."

"Such as?" I prompted, still not having taken any notes.

"You know those women who marry mass-murderers on death row? They ain't all right in the head." His long fingers brushed across his knee and back, feeling the texture of his dark gray slacks.

"Has this happened to you before?" I prompted.

"Loons throwing themselves at me or thinking I'll be their best friend? Yeah, a couple over the years. Nothing weirder than having one of them follow you around when you're on business."

"How did you handle it?"

"Usually ended up guttin' 'em."

We were both silent for a long while.

"Being together with Emma meets a lot of your needs. Love, companionship, family." I tried to poke again.

Again my client grunted in the affirmative but didn't elaborate. He didn't want to talk along this line.

"Why do you think she's not being receptive to you?"

A great shake of his head was my answer.

"Have you considered her needs?" I ventured carefully. Green eyes pierced me to my seat and his lips turned into a silent snarl.

"What ain't I givin' her? She's got a roof over head, food in her belly, clothes on her back, and I'm protectin' her. And I ain't cheap, she's got the best of the best if she wants it."

"Have you considered that not everything a person needs is material? Like love?"

Mr. Creed made a strange noise and waved his hand at me like I was talking out my ass. "I love her. Course I love her, that fuckin' cow."

"Do you call her that to her face?" I was beginning to see the problem in the relationship.

"Term of endearment." He muttered looking out the window to my left now.

"Is it possible that her unreceptiveness and your fights have been a result of the way you treat her?" Empathy was not Mr. Creed's strong suit.

"I treat her just fine." His body language said he was being defensive and guilty however.

"Mr. Creed," I swallowed and sat forward in my chair. "your personality, your life history - granted I know very little and you won't speak of your childhood at all - I'm certain that you're a sociopath." He grinned at that, but I continued to the point. "Sociopaths don't feel love. They don't understand it, they can't empathize with another person. They don't exactly bond well with people. How do you know you love your wife? Or rather, why haven't you killed her yet?"

I struck something within him, but I wasn't sure if it would end my life that night. He stared at me and I couldn't read the expression. Maybe shocked, maybe pensive. Finally he looked away back out the window.

"She tried to leave me once. It felt like I was dying inside, like I was being crushed to death inside my own body. That's gotta be heartbreak. You don't get a broken heart if you don't love something."

The absence of pain is love. What a twisted way to think. It made me curious about his childhood. He profiled like an abused child might from what I knew of him. But now was not the time. I scribbled that thought on the notepad balanced on my knee before continuing.

"Do you tell her you love her?"

"Yes. Sometimes. Maybe. Not really."

"Do you maybe show her you love her instead?"

"I told you she ain't being receptive at the moment." He replied irritated.

"Are there other ways you show her you care? Bring her flowers, listen to her when she wants to talk, help her with the dishes, run errands for her?"

"I'm her husband, not her boyfriend."

I really wanted to go home at this point. I had had a long day and it was past the dinner hour. My own wife would be sitting on the couch almost ready for bed within the hour. I didn't need a stubborn client right now. I inhaled and found my reserve of patience for clients like this.

"No one wants to be nice to someone who's a jerk to them." I stated plainly. Perhaps my well of patience was running dry.

Mr. Creed's lip twitched but he was silent in agreement.

"Go home, bring your wife some flowers, tell her she looks beautiful. Stop being selfish, callous, and manipulative." _Said the psychologist to the sociopath_.

Strangely, that seemed to work and the bull of a man got to his feet, concluding our session. He dropped a hand on my shoulder and thanked me. "Be seein' you." He waved over his shoulder and exited my office into the night.

I exhaled loudly, picked up my scarce notes, and locked them into the safe where I stored all of my current client files, ready to go home and catch the last of the evening news.


	2. Chapter 2

Sabretooth belongs to Marvel Comics. All other characters belong to me.

* * *

**November 28th**

Soft, fat flakes of snow were falling against my window in the dying afternoon light. Leanne had gone home for the day to pick up her kids and the office was quiet. Despite the locked front door, my unexpected last client of the day walked from the waiting room and into the empty armchair in my sitting area. He lifted heavy steel-toed workboots on to my coffee table and waited patiently for me to finish my notes and join him.

Last time I saw him he was in a suit and looked clean and manicured, today he was outfitted like a grunge biker, his hair free of its ponytail and at least two feet longer, braids and feathers entwined throughout and bunched up in a makeshift mohawk on his head. Ripped dark jeans and a dirty white wife-beater, a fur-lined hood on a green jacket over that, rattling necklaces of animal teeth and chains, and one claw painted red. God I hoped it was paint.

"Be right there." I murmured and returned to my notes.

"No rush." Mr. Creed picked at his teeth while looking at the titles on my floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.

I concluded in my thoughts and closed the file I was working on before picking up my pad and pen and making my way over to the sitting area opposite my client.

"How are you today?" I began.

He responded by clacking his claws together on his right hand, making a motion indicating too much talking. He was very dismissive of pleasantries.

"I tried that thing you suggested last time." He responded instead. "With the flowers and woo."

"How did that work out?" I scratched on my pad briefly.

"It worked out."

I nodded waiting for him to direct the conversation.

"You know what really grinds my gears, doc?" He didn't wait for my response. "'Vic'. I fucking hate being called 'Vic'. Not my goddamn name." It seemed like such a trivial detail but I watched as his chest pumped out and his chin raise, like a weight was lifted from him after all these years. "My name is Victor."

"Who calls you Vic?"

"Who cares? Idiots." He was very loud today, very reflective of his wardrobe it seemed.

"Does Emma call you Vic?" I asked.

"Not once."

"Would it bother you if she did?" I knew Mr. Creed was a man of great pride and his name was very important to that pride, but I was falling short of why this mattered at this time, why his name would have caused him to come in today.

"Yes." He boomed, he was very passionate.

"Why?"

"Because I hate the name Vic! Are you not listening today?"

"Do your parents call you Vic?" I avoided.

"They called me Creed." He shut down, his fire tamed for the moment.

"Why would they call you that?" I asked quietly, picking up on the past tense.

"We're not talking about my childhood."

"Why wo-"

"We're not talking about my childhood." The conversation stopped dead at that point. Now I had to diffuse the tension I had created.

"Alright, I respect your privacy. Is there a reason you brought this up today?"

"Client called me Vic this morning." He grumbled and shred some of his jeans at the knee with his claws absently.

"Did you feel it reflected a familiarity with you that was not welcome?" I watched threads fall to my carpet, knowing the cleaning crew would not be in until the next week.

"What?" Mr. Creed glared at me irritably.

"Did it make you uncomfortable because he tried to create an intimacy between you both by using a nickname when you wanted to remain professional?" Rephrasing was harder than I expected.

"It made me angry because he was arrogant and condescending." He exhaled through his nose and focused back on his pants. It was not uncommon for clients to avoid eye contact when talking about their feelings like this.

"How did you handle the situation?"

"Who fucking cares? That's not the point of what I'm saying. I'm tellin' you about being angry, I wanna talk about being angry, I don't wanna talk about whether I'm a well-adjusted person who handles things productively." Loud and angry and very deadly. A wonderful combination in a therapy client.

"Then let's talk about your anger." I put up my hands submissively.

"I don't want to now, you've pissed me off." The coffee table was kicked away from him and it tipped into the empty loveseat that rounded out the sitting area of my office.

"What do you do when you're angry like this?" Risking myself, I stood to right the table and returned to my seat.

"I'm tired." Mr. Creed rubbed his eyelids with his thumb and middle finger to avoid my question.

"I see you have a lot of frustration and I would venture to guess you don't know how to deal with it. Do you want to talk about that?" He wasn't looking at me again.

"You going to suggest I take up a hobby? Start knitting my anger out?"

"My wife seems to enjoy it and I get many sweaters when she's particularly upset with her sister." Perhaps humour was not the right answer in this case.

"Could you just shut up for one minute please?" We sat in silence for two. When I tried to open my mouth next, he pointed a finger at me threateningly with a glare. My mouth closed and I sat back in my chair, trying not to get too offended. "You know why I didn't kill you?" He finally broke the silence.

"I have no idea." I breathed.

"Cause you got some fucking balls on you." To my surprise, his mood had changed dramatically, a smile crept across his face. Well, he was half correct, testicular cancer had taken one of them to be accurate. "Plus your brother was short-changing your worth. Cheap bastard."

I was glad to be alive, but he could still end my life on a whim during these sessions. It was only a matter of time and I was well aware of that fact. I suspected what actually saved my life the night that he came to kill me on my sibling's behalf was that I began to do what came naturally for me: I asked him open ended questions about his life. The most important thing I learned about Victor Creed on that first night was that he enjoyed talking about himself, and he seemed to have little occasion to do so.

"I'm glad you think so."

"You better be." He replied threateningly. "Anyway doc, I got skulls to bust. Be seein' you." Mr. Creed lifted his heavy frame from the chair and was in the process of leaving when I surprised myself in blurting out:

"You haven't resolved anything, we're barely even talked about your anger. What do you hope to get from talking if you don't actually want my help?"

"I don't want 'help'," he replied with a smirk, "I just need to shout things out and stomp around a little."

"I believe you're missing the point of therapy."

Victor Creed stood above me and stared down, his brow creasing slowly in anger. I could feel my bladder threatening to let go. Mercifully, he turned and left me shaking.


	3. Chapter 3

Sabretooth belongs to Marvel Comics. All other characters belong to me.

* * *

December 12th

Two weeks. It had been two weeks between this appearance and his last. He's never returned so soon to see me.

Mr. Creed stood in my office's hallway, one office of many on the seventh floor of a downtown high-rise. I was half out the door, my glasses slightly askew, my briefcase threatening to spill to the floor while I tried to stuff my arms into my winter coat.

"I'm sorry, I have an appointment I need to make across town this evening, I can't see you tonight."

Mr. Creed stood with his hands in his gray woollen coat pockets, a knitted red scarf wrapped around his throat snuggly, and a thin black toque pulled down over his ears, a tuff of blond bangs poking out from underneath. "Why don't we walk and talk?"

"That compromises confidentiality." I shook my head but started towards the elevators, Mr. Creed's tall shadow following me down the hallway. He snorted at my statement. "I take my profession very seriously, I won't risk losing my license for you."

"I take my profession pretty seriously too." The lift arrived and I stood awkwardly beside him with his threat hanging in the air. My brown, knee-length down-coat and unintentional matching briefcase hung heavily on me. I remained silent.

He walked half a step behind me through the tiled reception area of the ground floor, actually grabbed the door handle half a moment before I reached for it, and held it open for me. He waited beside me as I walked to the curb becoming more and more uncomfortable as the moments passed in silence.

"I'm taking a cab..."

Mr. Creed shrugged. "We'll split it."

"I don't mean to be rude, but this is a bit personal, this appointment. I would prefer to go alone." A cabbie pulled up alongside the sidewalk and I opened the back door but waited before getting in.

His green eyes narrowed like those of a feline, appraising but unconcerned. "Fair enough." The blond giant raised a clawed hand in submission and took a step back. "See you later then."

When I sat down into the back of the cab and turned around to look out the back window, I couldn't see his red scarf anywhere.

ooooo

Tired was an understatement. It was late and my wife was asleep when I got home. I unlocked the back door as quietly as I possibly could. I flicked on the kitchen light only to find Mr. Creed sitting there with a glass of red wine and an open, half empty bottle at the kitchen table. His boots were off and neatly placed on the doormat, his coat hung on a hook in the mudroom, and the dog lay under the table with her tail wagging.

"You look rough, doc. Have some wine."

"This is crossing a line." My jaw clenched in anger.

"Do you wanna talk about your anger? Maybe you should take up knitting." His wine glass swirled twice before he finished it in one gulp.

"This isn't funny, this isn't a joke. You do not come to my _house_." I hissed, my finger jabbing the air.

"Don't forget who I am." Mr. Creed's head cocked to the side. "I said I'd see ya later."

"Where's my wife?" Fear was now creeping up my throat. I looked down the darkened hallway leading the stairs to upstairs.

He shrugged uninterested. "Upstairs snoring away."

"This couldn't wait?"

"I get the sense that you aren't exactly grateful that I value your skills and abilities as a highly-paid psychologist...more than I value the paycheck I turned down to off you."

"Not at this hour, not in my home, not after the day I've had." I shook from adrenaline.

"But I wanna talk about my _feelings_."

"Never, never, come to my home again. Ever." I took down his coat and threw it at him, pulling open the heavy door to the back entrance.

After a brief moment, he rose, pulling his coat on one arm at a time. He sat back down, dragging his boots forward and lacing them up at the table. He pulled his toque on and grabbed my hand to shake it. "Well thanks for the hospitality, thanks for the wine."

"That was an anniversary present from my wife." I mumbled sadly.

"What can I say, I'm kind of an asshole."

"Please just leave."

"Leaving."

I shut the door forcibly behind his retreating back and secured the lock and chain. I took a tired trek around the first floor, making sure all the windows and doors were secure before checking the back door once more and heading upstairs to see my wife. The sociopath knew where I lived.


	4. Chapter 4

Sabretooth belongs to Marvel Comics. All other characters belong to me.

* * *

January 19th

I had made it through the holiday season, fielding mental health emergencies from clients left and right. I wasn't in the office much once the new year arrived. For me, my vacations always took place after Christmas, when life got back to normal for most people.

He found me sitting in the park by the frozen pond, my breath coming out in solid white puffs as my teeth chattered in the cold.

Standing, he took a deep inhale and let it out with a broad smile on his face. "Crisp."

"It's minus twenty seven. It's twenty degrees past anything resembling 'crisp'." I replied bitterly as I shivered.

"Should you be out here?" Mr. Creed asked peering at me with a knowing smile.

He couldn't know. There was no possible way that he could know... Did he know?

"I'm fine, just cold." I shivered again in my down jacket, hands stuffed deeply in my pockets in balled up fists.

"You wanna go inside somewhere?" He offered seemingly kindly.

I did want to go inside, but I didn't want to talk to him. I was finished talking with him at this point. Not only did I have my own concerns occupying my mind, but his overstepping boundaries by breaking into my house really solidified how dangerous and psychotic he was. "I'm fine." I repeated.

"Listen, about last time-" Mr. Creed purred, his claws furling as he spoke.

"Stop, you're going to apologize to manipulate me into feeling sorry for you and submitting to your agenda. You aren't actually sorry for what you did last month, you just want to use me for your own ends." My fingers had lost feeling so I pulled them from my pockets and tucked them into my armpits, even though I also wore knitted gloves.

"My wife hasn't even caught on to that yet, and we've been married for decades." Taking advantage of the outdoors, Mr. Creed lit up a cigarette and waved the match out.

"Poor woman." I muttered.

"She gives as good as she gets."

We were silent while eying each other evaluatively, distrustfully. He stood leaning against the light post near the pond where children skating whipped past in gleeful screams, his ears and cheeks were starting to turn pink in the weather. He was wearing the same down jacket I last saw him in, but today his scarf was jewel sapphire, and he wore no hat. Flicking his cigarette twice to send the ashes floating away, he turned his full attention back on me.

"So what're you gonna go?"

"What do you mean?" I feigned ignorance.

"You're dyin', doc. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news but that cancer's too far along to save your ass."

I closed my eyes against the cold wind and his words. The doctor has come to the same conclusion five days before, though in a much more compassionate way. "How did you know?"

"I knew the minute I stepped near you." He laughed with pride.

"What?" My eyes darted up to his face in outrage.

Turning to a small boy slowly skating along the outskirts, windmilling his arms for balance, making strong eye contact with each other, but speaking to me he said, "Why do you think I didn't slit your throat that night? Why your brother hasn't sent someone else?"

My response was silent simmering anger.

Mr. Creed turned back to me, the child spooked away. He tapped the tip of his nose with a clawed index finger. "I could smell it eating away at you. I knew you'd be dead in months. Told your yellow bellied brother the same, he revoked your contract and has been waiting for you to croak since. Less chance of him going to jail that way."

"Why didn't you just kill me? You turned down a paycheck." His actions didn't make sense to me so it left me wondering what did I have that he wanted?

"The paycheck was a piss in the ocean compared to what I'm worth, doc."

An ambitious pair of joggers passed between us on the sidewalk before I replied, "Why didn't you kill me?"

"Guess you'll never know." Mr. Creed flicked the cigarette butt in my direction as he pushed himself away from the lamppost and left me shivering on the bench.


	5. Chapter 5

**Sabretooth belongs to Marvel Comics. All other characters belong to me. **

* * *

February 1st

The police had stopped by the day before last to report that my office had been broken into and my office safe accessed. Leanne has called them when she realised the safe stood a crack open and client files were in disarray. She would have to call all of my clients to inform them of the breach of my security though it seemed nothing was taken. They could attempt to press charges against me, but I was currently lying in a hospital bed in morphine-managed pain, and would likely not live to see the end of the week.

The the police came, they reported that no client files were missing, they couldn't vouch for the contents of the files being all accounted for. I received a strange look from them when I asked if there had been an extra file that couldn't be accounted for.

"Generally," the older of the two officers responded, "when there's a break in, things are taken, not left behind."

Mr. Creed had taken the private file I had kept on him.

The night nurse bid me goodnight and softly closed my door, shutting out most of the hallway light. The pain from the cancer eating my body away would keep me from sleeping even if the room was pitch dark.

A soft click from the washroom.

From the shadows Mr. Creed emerged, having hidden behind the door unbeknownst to even me, who had been in the room the entire time, albeit in and out of consciousness.

This was the one evening that my wife would not be able to sit with me and I would be alone, how could he have known?

"Mr. Creed." I croaked.

"Hey Doc. You look...well, you're alive." His heavy frame sat down softly beside my bed in a visitor's chair.

"I can't..." My words cut off by my breathing.

"Don't worry, all you gotta do is listen." He sat back, getting comfortable. He unbuttoned his crisp suit jacket to reveal a light gray vest. His black shoes caught the light from the hallway as he crossed ankle over his knee and he covered his mouth with his hand, flashing a heavy gold band on his wedding finger. "You do that, and I'll return the favour."

I could only nod in response.

Mr. Creed adjusted the position of his hands, cracked his neck on one side and then the other, smoothed a piece of hair that was slicked back in a short, neat cut, then sat staring at his shoe.

A deep breath in and then, "my old man was an abusive, sick fuck. I wouldn't be surprised if I got my crazy from him."

He went on, unraveling his long and tortuous existence for a very long time. At points I was so overcome from the details I found my eyes welling with tears, but every time he caught me, his glare of hatred for my pity cut me. When he finished there was a dead silence between us broken only by my machines whirring and beeping.

"So what do ya think, Doc?" He cleared his throat, unable to look up at me.

"I think," I began slowly, thoughtfully, "you're afraid."

"Afraid?!" His temper flared up and his lips pulled back into a sneer.

"Afraid you'll turn into your father. Afraid of losing your family. Afraid you'll scar your children, put them in danger, make them hate you."

"I talked for," he checked his gold Rolex watch, "two and a half hours, and all you took from that was that I'm afraid the people living in my home will find out I'm a monster."

"'The people living in your home?'"

"Family, kin, pride, strangers."

"You are surrounded by the people that love you. You went from growing up with abuse and deprivation by the people in your life that are supposed to love you, and now your home is filled with your own family, people you are responsible for and that love you for all your imperfections. I think you need to accept the love they have for you, and that you deserve to be loved. You are not the evil your father raised you to believe you were." I looked at him exhausted, my morphine drip was no longer effective to manage the pain growing inside me. "Stop using your father as an excuse for your whole life."

"I don't think about that man. He is so inconsequential to me that he doesn't even amount to an excuse." His voice was steel.

"I don't know what you want me to say." The pain crept into my voice and I flinched as I tried to move.

"Nothing. I just...have never actually said any of this outloud." Mr. Creed relaxed back into the chair and it creaked with his weight.

"When you said you would return the favour, what did you mean?" I breathed.

"Well, I'm not a priest, but if you have any last confessions, now is the time to spill them."

I understood. I understood this favour that he promised me. "I'm ready."

"Are you?" Mr. Creed stood and buttoned his jacket.

"I'm ready." I repeated. I thought about my wife, our childless marriage, my friends, what family I had left. I had said my goodbyes over the last few weeks and all I wanted now was to die quietly, mostly on my own terms, without too much pain.

"Goodbye Doc. Nice knowin' ya." He placed his hands on either side of my face, and before he quickly jerked my head to the side, effectively breaking my neck, he filled my whole vision. The last thing I would see was the solemn face of a sociopath. His secrets would die with me as well.


End file.
